


Deviation

by biswholocked



Series: JWP 2015 [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: watsons_woes, Dancing, First Kiss, M/M, Post-World War I, Queer History, nightclubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soho, 1918. John Watson finds something he never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deviation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day twenty six of JWP, a day late because I spent yesterday with a friend. The prompt was: "The One You Were Expecting: Everyone expects certain kinds of prompts in JWP. Today's prompt is exactly that: the one you personally had expected to see by now, but haven't". This is my first time participating, so I didn't have many expectations, so after some thought I decided to attempt a historical AU.
> 
> I did some brief research on the queer scene in Soho during the time period this is set in, but I am by no means an expert. Still, I hope it's enjoyable!

From the moment John steps through the door, something in the air weaves its way into his blood. The club is dimly lit and the atmosphere heavy with smoke that clings to the back of his throat; an infectious rhythm from a band in the corner tugs at everyone’s limbs and makes John terribly aware of his cane and the ache in his leg.

He haltingly makes his way to the bar and takes a seat. The bartender slides over to stand in front of him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” he asks.

“Scotch, neat,” John says, and then man turns away with a nod, leaving John to glance around at the other patrons; the variety and sheer amount of oddities he sees sends a sharp shiver of surprise and want down his spine. Women with short haircuts, dressed in trousers and braces lean up against the bar, smoking cigarettes and knocking back shots; men in dresses and high heels deliver drinks to tables and circulate through the crowd. In the darker corners John can just barely make out the shapes of people entwined in passionate embraces; everyone is loose, hardly dressed for decency, and sweating freely.

The bartender sets a glass down in front of him, pulling John from his observations, and he pays with a small smile before turning back to watch the rest of the club, drink in hand. The scotch goes down easily and spreads heat through his chest, and John feels himself start to loosen up. It was an impulse that found him walking the streets of Soho after begging off from Murray’s offer of a pub crawl, but not one that John thinks he’ll regret.

“France or Belgium?”

John starts and turns toward the voice. “Pardon?” he asks.

A young man has squeezed in next to him at the bar, glass in hand; he’s dressed in shirtsleeves with his cuffs rolled to his elbows, and his hair is breaking free from the grip of pomade, leaving black curls to fall over his forehead. His eyes are a swirl of colors that capture John’s attention unexpectedly.

“France or Belgium,” he says again, slightly louder this time, one eyebrow raised.

“France. But how did you-”

The man rolls his eyes. “Please. It’s obvious, look at you. Military posture and haircut, tan lines that indicate a long period of wearing a uniform and helmet. And then of course there’s the fact you’re very in-shape, and _terribly_ overdressed.”

John looks down at his clothes, compares his full suit to the stranger’s looser attire. “All right, so perhaps…” his rejoinder fades off his tongue as the man reaches out to loosen his tie, slim pale fingers quite the shock against the black material, then slide down John’s chest to undo the buttons of his jacket. John’s heart picks up its pace and he has to take another sip of his scotch to recover himself.

“Dance with me,” the man says, draining his drink and holding out a hand.

John shakes his head and gestures to the cane. “I’m not-”

“Oh, please,” the man scoffs. “You and I both know it’s in your head. It only hurts because you let it.”

“I don’t know even know your name-”

“Sherlock,” the man interrupts again. “And yours?”

“John.”

“Well then. No other objections, I hope?” The raised eyebrow makes another appearance, and John finds himself powerless to do anything but shake his head and follow the man out to the dance floor, where they melt into the crowd. Sherlock pulls him close until their bodies brush together and takes the lead; it’s a far cry from anything John’s done before, but the music swirls around in his head and combines with the heady scent of Sherlock’s cologne until the pain in his leg is pushed from mind and John gives in, following the cues of Sherlock’s body.

The tempo of the band slows until a raunchy, pulsating rhythm takes the place of the bounce, and Sherlock presses them even closer. Desire builds up in John’s chest, and on a whim John tilts his head until his nose is pressed against where Sherlock’s neck and jaw meet and his lips rest against Sherlock’s pulse. John feels Sherlock’s breath catch, and lets his tongue dart out to press against Sherlock’s salty skin; the next moment Sherlock’s fingers are against his chin, tilting his face up, and their lips meet in a kiss that sends a shudder through him. Sherlock’s lips are gentle but insistent, his tongue a wicked thing that teases John’s until both of them let their control slip and the kiss grows hotter.

John’s fingers clench against Sherlock’s back, and one of Sherlock’s hands finds its way into his hair to curl the strands and tug just enough to make John whimper quietly into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Come home with me,” Sherlock pants, and like most the things he says, it’s not a question.

“We’ve only just met,” John replies.

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other.” The legality of what Sherlock is proposing hardly crosses John’s mind.

Sherlock’s laughter resonates from his chest to John’s where they’re pressed together. “I know you’re an army doctor, recently returned from the Great War,” he murmurs against John’s neck in between sloppy kisses pressed to the skin and sharp nips. “I know this is your first time in an establishment like this one. I know you’ve a brother you disapprove of, and an army mate who’s concerned about you, but you won’t go either of them for help. And I know you want me,” he growls, rolling their hips together, making John’s breath catch, “more than you expected to.” Returning to John’s lips, Sherlock licks into John’s mouth and the feeling of Sherlock’s tongue against the roof of his mouth makes lust burn through John’s veins on its way to his groin where his member’s beginning to stiffen against Sherlock’s hip.

“That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think?” Sherlock asks, pulling back just enough to meet John’s eyes; there’s a challenge waiting in that silver gaze, one John finds himself powerless to resist.

“God, _yes_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome! Dialogue adapted from Arian DeVere's [transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html%22) of ASiP.


End file.
